


moments, moments, moments

by thompsborn



Series: tumblr prompts + drabbles [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, a slight misunderstanding that ends in fluff, and then admitting feelings anyway, watching gremlins instead of admitting feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23031607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thompsborn/pseuds/thompsborn
Summary: “You look, um—you look nice. It’s a good suit.”“Yeah, Pep has great taste, right?” Harley agrees, leans against the entryway for the kitchen and looks away from Peter with a blush that could just be makeup but could be his cheeks flushing a bit as well. “Thanks, though. And you, uh… you look good, too. Or, um—nice, not good. Not that you don’t look good, ‘cause you definitely—you definitely do, but you said nice, so maybe you just want to hear nice and not—you know what? I’m gonna stop talking before I say something even more stupid.”
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker
Series: tumblr prompts + drabbles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655254
Comments: 6
Kudos: 167





	moments, moments, moments

**Author's Note:**

> an anon asked for #11 and #16 off a dialogue prompt list
> 
> 11\. "I thought you didn't want me."  
> 16\. "Why haven't you kissed me yet?"
> 
> and this is what i wrote

There’s that moment, the one that feels like it came straight from a movie, where time slows down and the world goes quiet and everything goes fuzzy outside of the one place that eyes linger, the focal point of attention. In that moment, there is only Peter, standing in the kitchen and tossing an apple between his hands, and there’s Harley, standing in the doorway, hands settled in the front pockets of his pants and his eyes a little bit wide.

The apple rolls across Peter’s fingertips and falls to the countertop—not that either of them notices, of course, far too busy taking in the sight of one another in a not so subtle yet trying way too hard to be subtle way.

Of course, this isn’t really the first time they’ve seen each other dressed up before—there had been the big dinner they went to for Pepper’s birthday, where they’d put on nice button up shirts and clean black slacks and the nice shoes that Tony insisted on buying them—but this is different, full on three piece suits that kind of match in a very subtle sort of way. Peter’s curls are gelled with just enough precision to make them the perfect kind of bouncy and Harley’s hair has just enough moose in it to keep it from going haywire, like it usually does within the first thirty minutes of taming it, though it still falls naturally across his forehead in dirty blond waves that still appear somehow soft to the touch. Peter’s fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and brush through the ringlets, but he doesn’t, just averts his eyes after taking in the way the suit hugs Harley’s body perfectly.

“Um.” Peter clears his throat, picks up the apple again and takes a bite out of it, just to give himself an excuse to wait a little longer, mind blank on something acceptable to say. Juice from the apple drips down his chin in his haste, quickly wipes it away with the back of his hand before scrabbling for a napkin because he doesn’t want a single drop to get in the far too expensive suit he has on. Only after he’s dapped it away with the napkin does he try to look back at Harley again, knees going a bit weak at the soft eyes smile that Harley is wearing, looking some kind of fond and amused and a little bit timid, too. Clearing his throat again, Peter crumples up the napkin and tosses it in the garbage before saying, “You look, um—you look nice. It’s a good suit.”

“Yeah, Pep has great taste, right?” Harley agrees, leans against the entryway for the kitchen and looks away from Peter with a blush that could just be makeup but could be his cheeks flushing a bit as well. “Thanks, though. And you, uh… you look good, too. Or, um—nice, not good. Not that you don’t look good, ‘cause you definitely—you definitely do, but you said nice, so maybe you just want to hear nice and not—you know what? I’m gonna stop talking before I say something even more stupid.”

Peter’s lips quirks up against his will, beyond endeared by the way that Harley ducks his head in some kind of embarrassment, scuffing his nice dress shoes against the kitchen tile as he bunches his shoulders up in a weird sort of shrug. “Thanks,” Peter murmurs, takes another bite of his apple despite not really wanting to eat it. “When do we have to head down again?”

Pulling his phone from his pocket, Harley tells him, “It starts in ten minutes, so we should probably go now. Tony said he wants us to be there before guests show up, since we’re supposed to, like, actually socialize with people and tell them about the charity and shit.”

Peter lets out a light laugh. “You make it sound like a hard thing to do when you’re the one who suggested what charity to donate to this year.”

“Oh, choosing the charity was easy,” Harley says simply. “Talking to a bunch of snobby rich people? Not so much, but, y’know, for the sake of making sure poor and homeless kids get shelter and presents for Christmas is worth it.” He shrugs, a forced sort of nonchalant attitude to his actions, and adds: “Plus, y’know, I get to spend all night watchin’ you walk around in that super nice suit, which is definitely a bonus.”

A moment of quiet passes where Peter feels his face heat up at the blatant attempt at flirting, eyes casting downward, takes a third bite of his apple before tossing it in the trash because he doesn’t think he can force down anymore. Then, when he can’t find something suitable to say—can’t grasp the right words, has always struggled to vocalize something as upfront as flirting, doesn’t have the confidence for something so blunt—he settles for meekly saying, “So, we should—we should go, then.”

Harley clears his throat, squints over at the wall with some kind fo pinched expression. “Yeah, we should, um—we should go. We should go.”

“Okay,” Peter murmurs, tried not to feel stifled by the undefinable feeling hanging in the air.

There’s that moment, yet again, where they meet eyes across the crowded room down at the charity gala, even when a sea of fancily dressed business people separates them, when music is playing through the speakers and chit chat is pleasantly filtering across the room. Peter is nodding along to something a bookkeeper for SI is saying and Harley is laughing along with an engineer professor that teaches at NYU and their gazes lock and there’s _something_ there, an unspoken yet all consuming _something_ that curls and twists and pleads with them without using words.

Peter looks away first, before he gets stuck there, staring into Harley’s baby blue eyes with a sense of everything filling his veins, smiles at the bookkeeper and keeps nodding despite not really hearing what it is they have to say. Harley keeps looking for a moment longer, swallows thicky before tearing his eyes away, and it’s left at that for the time being, settles in the back of their minds with an insistent sort of buzzing.

It isn’t until the end of the night, after they’ve raised over a million dollars for the charity and a majority of the guests have filed out of building to head home and the staff are starting to clean up, and they—as they always tend to do—gravitate towards each other, meet in the middle at the elevator and share little smiles but don’t talk until the doors have opened and closed behind them. Even then, it’s just Harley asking, “That wasn’t too bad, right?”

“No, it was pretty fun, actually,” Peter says with a light hum, clasps his hands behind his back because he doesn’t know what else to do with them. “I got to catch up with Harry, which was cool, since we kind of stopped being friends when his dad sent him to boarding school back when we were, like, thirteen. And the food was good, too, and, um…” He trails off, tries not to sound as awkward as he feels when he clears his throat a bit and gives himself a moment to string together his sentence. Then, a bit strained and lacking certainty, he says, “Um, it was also—also kind of nice, seeing, um—like you said before, with you seeing me in a suit, y’know, but, um, the other way, with me getting to see you in a—in a suit. That was nice, too.”

He doesn’t look over, because he doesn’t think he really can after that train wreck, but he glances at the metal elevator doors and looks at Harley’s reflection instead, sees the way the ends of his lips quirk up in a small little smile, how he glances at Peter and then quickly looks away. It’s a cute sight, Peter thinks, even if he didn’t really get the flirting thing right, but he doesn’t have time to try again before the doors slide open on the pent house floor.

Feeling sheepish and unsure, Peter ducks his head to avoid Harley’s eyes, shuffles out of the elevator with a murmured little, “I’m gonna go, um, go to bed, probably? So, um, goodni—”

“Or we can watch a movie,” Harley offers, sounding a bit rushed with his words, stepping out of the elevator as well. “It’s not that late yet, and I’m not really all that tired, so, if you want, we can—I mean, in the living room, or one of our rooms, or—or whatever. If you want.”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek, look up at Harley with a barely contained smile. “Okay.”

There’s a glimmer of something in Harley’s eyes, some kind of excitement as he bobs his head in a nod and says, “Okay, then, um—your room, maybe? Since you already have snacks in there? I can—I mean, we could—the living room, too, if you’d rather go there.”

“My room’s fine,” Peter says, tone a tad bit softer than intended. “Ten minutes?”

“Yeah,” Harley breathes. “Ten minutes. I’ll be there. And I’ll grab some drinks, too. Soda?”

Peter nods, turns on his heel before he gets sucked in by the gravitational pull that Harley has on him, and quickly scurries to his room, knowing that there’s a pile of schoolwork on his desk and a mess of clothes on the floor that he wants to pick up before Harley comes in. Not that he thinks he’d be judged for the clutter, is well aware that Harley’s room can be just as askew as his own, but he wants to impress, in even the simplest of ways.

There’s that moment, the third of the night, where that feeling settles over them, when Peter opens the door ten minutes later in his lazy clothes and with his hair still wet from quickly rinsing the gel out in the sing, a few drops of water rolling down his face as he steps out of the way and gestures inside with a sheepish little half grin, as if Harley wasn’t in his room two days ago while they studied for a test.

Harley doesn’t move for a long moment, looks a little bit ridiculous with the hem of his sweatshirt in his hand to hold four cans of soda in the make shift pouch that the material makes, hoodie pulled up over his head and hiding a majority of the blond waves that he spent a solid minute tugging at because he didn’t have time to shower away the products in his hair and hadn’t thought of rinsing it out real quick like Peter apparently did. His eyes are stuck on how the light reflects off of Peter’s curls like a halo, has to blink himself out of it in order to step into the room and forces himself to ask, “So, what should we watch?”

“I was thinking either something funny or something scary,” Peter answers quickly, because he had spent part of his ten minutes debating that very question, wanting to seem prepared because he feels anything but. “Or a Christmas movie,” he adds. “Since we just had a whole Christmas charity thing, y’know?”

“Christmas themed horror movie, maybe?” Harley offers, trotting over to Peter’s bed and plopping down on it to make himself comfortable, releasing his hold on the hem of his hoodie to let the drinks roll onto the mattress beside him. “I’ve heard of a few of ‘em. There’s gotta be something good, right?”

Eyes lighting up, Peter settles in next to Harley, pulls open the bottom drawer in his night stand to pull out the paper bag full of snacks that he keeps in his room for the munchies that always seem to wake him up in the middle of the night. “I know exactly what we need to watch,” he says, kind of giddy and excited. “Friday,” he calls out, pulling a blanket over the two of them and settling the bag of snacks on the duvet for them to easily access. “Dim the light to fifteen percent and play Gremlins, please!”

Automatically, the lights go low and the TV turns on, the movie flickering to life on the screen. Harley hums, settles back against the pillows and says, “I’ve never actually seen this, I don’t think. Heard of it, but never watched it.”

“Shh, you gotta pay attention,” Peter whispers, eyes already fixated on the TV, but his mind doesn’t focus on the movie—which he has watched a thousand times by now, always seems to rewatch it with May every December and recommends it whenever he can. Instead, he finds all his senses trained onto Harley, hearing his heartbeat, feels his body heat due to how close they’re sitting, can smell the cologne he was wearing for the charity gala and watches his reactions from his peripheral as subtly as possible, smiles when he smiles and hopes that Harley actually likes the movie and won’t think that Peter chose something dumb.

Thoughout the movie, Harley makes the odd comment here and there, jumps a bit at the loud noises and giggles under his breath at some of the scenes, but otherwise seems completely engrossed in the film, doesn’t look away, barely even blinks, keeps his reactions to a minimum. Peter is so focused on trying to figure out if he’s enjoying the movie or not that he doesn’t really notice that Harley is moving closer, not until their sides are pressed right up against each other, from shoulder to elbow to hip to knee, and then he does something odd, tilts a bit until their heads are leaning together, as well, and Peter has to hold his breath to stop himself from actually gasping in shock.

“Um…” Peter’s voice breaks a bit, cracks on the exhale and shakes when he sucks in a sharp breath to try and relax a bit. “Harley…?”

“Shh, I’m trying to pay attention,” Harley whispers, and Peter can practically hear the little smile in his voice, the little smug like edge to his tone as he presses a little bit closer to Peter, doesn’t move his eyes from the TV for even a moment, even when he slowly reaches over to hold Peter’s hand, their interlocked fingers settling atop the duvet, and all Peter can do is stare at how their hands fit together, wonders if Harley realizes that his heart is thundering against his ribcage.

He doesn’t even realize the movie’s ended until he watches Harley pull his hand away, and, without really meaning to, looks up with a shadow of disappointment settling over him at the loss of contact, turns his head to see why Harley let go, only to find the TV off and Harley moving away altogether, no longer pressed to Peter’s side and staring down at his lap with a frown that’s barely visible in the low lighting.

“It’s late,” Harley says, kind of quiet.

Peter isn’t sure what it is, but he knows he’s missing something. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Harley nods, still not looking up from where he’s twisting the material of the blanket between his fingers. “Past midnight, so…”

“You’re going back to your room,” Peter says, doesn’t ask it because the answer is pretty clear, and he tries not to feel upset, tries not to let the disappointment double in his chest.

Harley falters, then says, “I’m sorry.”

That makes Peter freeze a bit, confused and a little bit panicked because he doesn’t like that sad tinge in Harley’s voice. “What? For what?”

“For, y’know, the—the stupid flirting, and for holding your hand like that without even asking, even though you were clearly uncomfortable with it and I… I’ll stop. I’m sorry.”

“Uncomfortable?” Peter repeats, frowning.

Harley shifts, leans further away from Peter and crosses his arms over his chest, shoulders hunched. “Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes downcast. “You got quiet and changed the subject, and when I held your hand, you sounded weird, and just stared at our hands with a weird look on your face. Like you were disgusted, or whatever. It looked like you wanted to let go.”

“I wasn’t… I’m not disgusted,” Peter says, brows shooting up to his hairline in surprise. He thought it was pretty obvious, the fact that he’s not really good at this stuff, but he supposes he can see it, the way Harley must have misinterpreted his reactions as something negative. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine that Harley isn’t actually there, hopes that thinking he’s alone will give him courage, and meekly admits, “I, um… I’m just really out of my element right now? I’ve never—never really, um—never flirted before, I guess? I don’t really know how to—how to react, or anything. But you haven’t… you don’t make me uncomfortable, Harley. You just make me nervous, ‘cause I don’t really even know how to act when I’m around you.”

Finally, Harley looks up, glances at Peter with what might be a little bit of hope in his eyes. “You don’t know how to act around me? Why?”

Peter shrugs a bit, swallows the nervous lump in his throat and gives himself a moment to properly piece together a response. “Because, um… well, I mean, I—I thought it was obvious, to be honest. I thought you already knew.”

Harley is frozen in anticipation. “Knew what?”

“That I, y’know…” Peter trails off, shakes his head a bit, and barely manages to choke out, “That I—I like you. Like. As more than a friend. And I don’t know how to—how to act around you because I’ve never actually, um—never really ended up all that close with my crushes before, y’know? But then we started hanging out and became friends and I—I don’t know what to do when you—when you flirt with me and hold my hand because I’ve never done this before and I really, _really_ like you, okay? And I thought you knew that because you keep flirting and stuff, and I keep thinking that you like me, too, but then you do—you do this, where you pull away before I have the courage to do anything, and I just keep—keep hoping you’ll just do something, like—like kiss me or something, so that I can stop doubting if you really like me, ‘cause I—I think you do, but if you do, then **why haven’t you kissed me yet?** But that’s not really a fair question, either, and I shouldn’t—shouldn’t expect you to—”

There’s that moment, not the first, not the last, where soft, slightly shaky hands cup Peter’s face and a pair of lips press to his own, open and warm and inviting, cutting off his rambling in the best possible way. His eyes are already closed, so he just leans into it with a slightly hitched breath, reaches up to wrap his fingers around Harley’s wrist with one hand, the other hesitating before settling lightly against Harley’s waist, curling into the fabric of his sweatshirt as he tried to imitate what Harley’s doing, parts his lips and moves like he does, hopes that he’s doing it right because he doesn’t really have much else to compare it to. It seems like he’s doing alright, though, because Harley makes a dizzying sort of desperate noise that rumbles in the back of his through and he moves one hand to Peter’s hair and the other to the back of Peter’s neck and tries to pull him closer and deepen the kiss and Peter’s hands are shaking but he ignores it and gets lost in this feeling, this moment.

It feels like they must kiss for years before they pull away, panting and out of breath and wearing dopey little smiles. Peter’s words, everything he wants to say, is lodged in his throat and impossible to talk around so he just kisses Harley again and again and again, little pecks that try to say everything he can’t, until he finally stop and leans their foreheads together and takes a deep, shaky breath.

“I thought…” Harley trails off, clears his throat and closes his eyes. “‘Cause of how you kept reacting, I just— **I thought you didn’t want me**.”

“God, I want you,” Peter breathes, shaking his head slightly. “I’ve been crushing on you for over a year, Harley. I definitely want you. Like, one hundred percent, please date me, I really want to keep kissing kind of want you, y’know?”

A heavy exhale pushes its way out of Harley’s mouth, a sound of relief and an emotional sort of happiness, and he leans in again, kisses Peter with a sense of urgency, lips moving fervently and fingers lightly brushing through Peter’s hair, fingertips skimming across his jaw and mapping out the shape of his face while Peter just presses closer and hopes that this moment never ends, wishes that all of their moment, the eyes meeting across the room, the awkward fumbling through nervous compliments when seeing one another in their fancy suits, the heaviness of something unspoken weighing them down in the elevator while Peter stumbled through a compliment, the feeling of their sides pressed close together and their fingers intertwined and this kiss, god, this _kiss._

If they did nothing but kiss til the end of time, Peter would be happy. God, he could die now and he would be content, holding onto Harley and kissing him, kissing him, kissing him, until he’s dizzy and warm and he has to break the kiss because happy little giggles are bubbling out of his throat and Harley just grins, a bit dazed and fond, and he loops his arms around Peter’s shoulders and pulls him in for a hug, the two of them curling into one another and cuddling close together, and only when their little bouts of laughter have calmed down does Peter clear his throat and ask, “What do you think of Gremlins, by the way?”

“Oh, I want a Gizmo,” Harley answers instantly, presses his nose to the underside of Peter’s jaw as he snuggles into him. “The other fuckers deserved to die, but Gizmo is a precious baby and I would die for him.”

“I wanna get a cat named Gizmo,” Peter muses, eyes closing, every muscle relaxing into the mattress. “I think it’d be cute.”

Harley hums lightly. “Now I know what to get you for Christmas.”

“May and I can’t have pets at the apartment.”

“But I can convince Tony to let you keep a cat here,” Harley points out, shrugging a shoulder half-heartedly. “Don’t worry about it. Just maybe think about what kind of cat you want and let me know in time to go look around at nearby shelters. And maybe try to act surprised when I give it to you.”

Peter snorts, smothers a grin in Harley’s hair. “You’re crazy.”

He can feel the smile on Harley’s face against the side of his neck. “Crazy for you, Parker. Now shut up and go to sleep. Cuddling makes me tired.”

“Bossy,” Peter murmurs, but leaves it there, starting to feel drowsy himself, and when he drifts away, he’s still wearing a happy little grin.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is spidey-lad !!


End file.
